


The Prince and the Soldier

by Crollalanza



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, faint OtaYuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:36:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: Fairytales never end well for Snow Queens, Yuri's grandfather tells him.But he's an Ice Prince whose life has never been a fairytale but a battle to be King.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is strongly influenced by the Suzanne Vega song 'The Queen and the Soldier'. Although the fic will make sense without knowing it, I urge you to listen because it is a great song. (I've linked it)
> 
> Thank you so much to the beautiful Eilidh (rinoa11) because she knows this song and suggested I write a drabble to get me out of a writing slump. The drabble became this.

[ _The Queen and the Soldier ~ Suzanne Vega_ ](https://youtu.be/3JIu_ptKHcI)

 

_"I've swallowed a secret burning thread_  
_It cuts me inside, and often I've bled"._

 

Not all fairy tales end happily.

His Grandfather had told him that, a long time ago, clutching Yuri’s mittened hand as they trudged through snowy furrows and back to the car.

_‘But don’t the Prince and Princess always live happy ever after?’_

_‘Ever is a very long time.’_

_‘But they’re happy, right? Everyone’s happy.’_

_‘For a while, yes.’_

His grandfather’s eyes had drifted back, his gaze straying to the headstones, to one headstone pinpricked with pale, yellow, tightly budded roses.

_(Her favourites, but she’d have cursed me for wasting money at this time of year.)_

His Granddad stooped down to tighten Yuri’s scarf, fixing the hat more firmly past his ears, and wiping away the snail track tear trail from Yuri’s cheek. _‘Fairytales never end happily for the bad guy.’_

_‘I know that!’_

_‘Or for the icy ones. The Snow Queen died, remember.’_

But on the ice Yuri was a Prince, in line to be King. Or a Queen. An Empress like Catherine the Great commanding an army, imperiously ordering the world to obey.  So he wasn’t going to heed his Granddad’s warnings, not when the ice sparkled like jewels, and the reflection staring back rendered him more beautiful than the sun.

***

 _Open up your heart,_ his Grandma used to say, pinching his cheeks. _Smile, Yurochka, smile!_

But how did you smile when all around was grey, when happiness was gossamer memories, threatening to wisp away unless you kept hold of each thread and wound them soft around your heart?

He smiled when he landed an axel the first time.  
He smiled when he successfully scored a combination.  
Again when a watching Yakov agreed to coach him.  
And when _he_ remembered his name.  

Then Yuri conquered spins, twisting and twirling on a space the size of a ruble, his sharp blades feather-soft across ice as if made of snow, the harsh threads of his life unfurling in red-ribboned smiles around him.

This was joy. This was life. This was glory. His realm.

***

There were other kingdoms, other princes to be conquered. Some fell, retiring gracefully to be allies on the sidelines. One or two sulked in their tents, regrouping for another day. Others formed their own armies, a show of strength against his fortress, ready for the slightest slip of a misstep to cast him down. The weakest of them all fled when Yuri raged, frightened by words, a flub of a prince unfit to fight.

And then one left.

 _He_ left.

Benevolent, teasing, full of surprise and tricks, fluttering eyelashes, winks and smiles. Kind words and advice showered like confetti from the King’s lips to those who stood by with hands cupped and wide eyes.

He threw his crown away and did not look back.

 Prince Yuri was not one to stand and wait. He’d demand, sure that if he stood firm, even the King would bow before him - as so many had, as so many did, as so many would again.

His eyes narrowed.

It turned out that the weakest prince of them all had the deceptive strength of a sapling. Bow him down, fold in two, thrash with a switch and yes, he’d cower like the blubbing mess he was, before springing back, stronger for the beating.

The King took his army of experience and strategy to another land. The Prince was alone, the threads tightening inside until he bled.

***

Admiration came from every corner and he could bask in admiration even as the skies greyed around him, but nothing, nothing, _nothing_ , not even the rose drenched sun in the sky could warm him as much as the gold of a medal around his neck.

And the war of words between Princes was one he could never win. A war in which he refused to take part. Flirty words and gamesmanship, diverting his focus – at least, that was the attempt. He stored the mockery deep inside, taking his battle to the rink.

 _‘Be like the ice, my little prince,’_ whispered the Sorceress, her fingers deft as she weaved the tresses of his hair.

 _‘Conserve your strength,’_ warned his most trusted Counsellor. ‘ _Battles are won at the end stages, not at the start.’_

***

He’s out in the sun, a lull in hostilities having caused the respite. It’s a ceasefire he doesn’t wish for, preferring to attack when he’s strong, the strength of his blades parrying at the ‘people’s prince’.

_The Snow Queen won’t die. Not yet, Granddad._

Every army, every leader attracts followers. Fawning, squealing, demanding. Without lackeys, without his Sorceress, without the Counsellor, and with the wisest of them all in the homeland far away from the battle, Prince Yuri is defenceless. A rigid crown welded to his brow, he aches to flee, but his feet can’t carry him fast enough, the burden of his royal trappings drag him down.

 

It’s not a steed. No royal insignia is draped across its quarters, but his saviour hurtles into his life with the speed and directness of an arrow. Sitting on the back of a bike is hardly suitable for a Prince. It’s not a gilded carriage, or even an old car belching out fumes and smelling of pirozhki. It’s not skates on ice, feeding his escape, not this time. But there’s a gliding feel to it, and as he grips with his fingers, watching as the sea of admirers recedes, he wonders what the point of a kingdom is if you cannot find refuge.

 

Otabek Altin says Yuri has the eyes of a soldier.

A soldier?

Him?

 _But that’s what I see in you,_ he wants to reply, but words like these are hard for him to whisper. He snarls something else instead, yet _this_ prince stands impassive.

 _‘I won’t fight you,’_ Otabek says, plain words, simple words, the accent not jarring, but chiming with the voice his Granddad uses when he chides.

_‘So why are you here?’_

It’s a skirmish he’s not encountered before. An affray undone not by a smile, or mockery, or kindness, but the seriousness of a soldier reaching out. Not done with the battle, but done with the war, the blood-loss too much as he bleeds in solitude.

Why?

 _‘I want a friend. A friend whose secrets I have to unlock,’_ Otabek mutters, but he doesn’t look away. ‘ _You have secrets, I think.’_

He should leave. This is an unnecessary distraction, and who knows if this unsmiling soldier is an ally or foe. Without the chatter of his advisers, without his granddad, without even the King to whisper advice, Prince Yuri is unguided, unguarded, and his heart leaps as the gossamer threads tethering him to ice, begin to unravel.

If he leaves, it will be over. The battle can continue. He will win. The world will see his victory. The gold will be his forever more ( _and ever is a long, long time, Granddad_ ) and he’ll warm it in his hands, letting its light gleam on his face.

But there’s a curiosity about him. Something he’s never experienced because his life plan was sculpted long ago as his blades cut into the ice, and all at once he’s ten years old – no nine because it was before she’d gone – and his Grandma’s pinching his cheeks.

_Smile, Yurochka, smile._

So he does, and after a shaky startled double-take, Otabek Altin, the soldier prince, smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated and make my heart sing!


End file.
